✟ 𝟹𝚁𝙳 𝙻𝚃. 𝙹𝙾𝙷𝙽 𝙸𝚁𝚅𝙸𝙽𝙶 (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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singillatim2025-01-16 10:10 pm
extramuralise) wrote in singillatim2025-01-16 10:10 pm
» THIS IS THE STORY OF YOUR RED RIGHT ANKLE; AND HOW IT CAME TO MEET YOUR LEG.
Who: Edward Little, John Irving, Kate Marsh, Wynonna Earp, + open to other CR drop-ins in need of temporary shelter!
What: STORMED IN (Winterstille).
When: January 24th - 28th, and/or potentially just before / after
Where: The 41 Mackenzie Street cottage
Content Warnings: 'Does one not bring his habits [aboard]?' — which is to say, all of these characters have their own canon and in-game baggage, shared or otherwise, so please label all threads accordingly!
What: STORMED IN (Winterstille).
When: January 24th - 28th, and/or potentially just before / after
Where: The 41 Mackenzie Street cottage
Content Warnings: 'Does one not bring his habits [aboard]?' — which is to say, all of these characters have their own canon and in-game baggage, shared or otherwise, so please label all threads accordingly!
✒︎ how it whispered ❝ Oh, adhere to me⨾ ❞
The bear-beast alone would have been bad enough (and no question, knowing it was out there somewhere made actually preparing for this storm a beast in itself), but at least the looming presence of such a monstrous creature was sure to drive people indoors before the weather really turned.
As it happens, the cabin on 41 Mackenzie Street (home to Lieutenants Little and Irving, and Kate Marsh) is well-kitted out to weather (ha ha) the coming — now imminent — storm that's been circling, or at least as insulated as possible without knowing precisely how bad the storm will be yet. The windows and doors have been protected, reinforced; candles, matchbooks, and oil lanterns abound throughout various parts of the house; there's plenty of firewood, and food to last about a week if needed (which is not to say plenty of food, but hopefully enough to get them by).
So if you're passing by and need some shelter, come in and warm up by the fire! Have some tea, stay for supper! And hopefully you can be on your way again before the snow really begins to come down, or else you may be stuck here for the foreseeable.
» ARRIVALS; GETTING WARM; SETTLING IN FOR THE STORM.
The bear-beast alone would have been bad enough (and no question, knowing it was out there somewhere made actually preparing for this storm a beast in itself), but at least the looming presence of such a monstrous creature was sure to drive people indoors before the weather really turned. As it happens, the cabin on 41 Mackenzie Street (home to Lieutenants Little and Irving, and Kate Marsh) is well-kitted out to weather (ha ha) the coming — now imminent — storm that's been circling, or at least as insulated as possible without knowing precisely how bad the storm will be yet. The windows and doors have been protected, reinforced; candles, matchbooks, and oil lanterns abound throughout various parts of the house; there's plenty of firewood, and food to last about a week if needed (which is not to say plenty of food, but hopefully enough to get them by).
So if you're passing by and need some shelter, come in and warm up by the fire! Have some tea, stay for supper! And hopefully you can be on your way again before the snow really begins to come down, or else you may be stuck here for the foreseeable.
✑ For we are bound by symmetry⨾
If you have been trapped here, never fear! There are still ways to keep occupied, especially for those would appreciate a distraction from the concerning colored strings that have mysteriously appeared on everyone's fingers (because seriously, what's that all about? Well, if you know, you know, or maybe you at least have developed a suspicion or two...), because don't you know? Victorians simply adore parlour games, and surely there are even a few old board games lying around that had been left behind back whenever the great Milton exodus occurred.
So, if you're feeling bored and not yet quite up to socializing about the weather (or, again, especially not those threads which seem to be connecting everyone to each other), take your pick! Gotta pass the time somehow, after all.
Blind Man's Bluff—
Charades—
Forfeits—
Yes and No/Twenty Questions—
... Not to mention other (more modern!) classics such as Truth or Dare, Never Have I Ever, and Two Truths and A Lie (if you can convince your hosts, that is!), or card games, or the much beloved campfire tradition of scary storytelling!
( OOC | Feel free to include in your prompt games that are NOT mentioned here; these are just a few examples, but anything is on the table! If it's a board game, you're welcome to assume your character can find it lying around in a closet or on a shelf somewhere. )
» FUN AND GAMES?!
If you have been trapped here, never fear! There are still ways to keep occupied, especially for those would appreciate a distraction from the concerning colored strings that have mysteriously appeared on everyone's fingers (because seriously, what's that all about? Well, if you know, you know, or maybe you at least have developed a suspicion or two...), because don't you know? Victorians simply adore parlour games, and surely there are even a few old board games lying around that had been left behind back whenever the great Milton exodus occurred. So, if you're feeling bored and not yet quite up to socializing about the weather (or, again, especially not those threads which seem to be connecting everyone to each other), take your pick! Gotta pass the time somehow, after all.
- Blind man's buff is played in a spacious area, such as outdoors or in a large room, in which one player, designated as "It", is blindfolded and feels around attempting to touch the other players without being able to see them, while the other players scatter and try to avoid the person who is "it", hiding in plain sight and sometimes teasing them to influence them to change direction.
Charades—
- The basic object of the game is for a player or team of players to act out clues that will allow another player or team to guess a secret word. Most people today are familiar with the basic concept of the game, but there are different ways to play it. During the 1800s, Charades was played very differently from the modern form of the game. Mohr describes this older form of the game as "complex theatricals" and cites Cassell's Book of Sports and Pastimes (1881), which describes players staging a short play with two scenes in which the actors gave their audience clues to the word they were supposed to guess. This is different from the modern form of the game in which a single player mimes words for the other players to guess instead of speaking out loud and uses certain common gestures to help the other players understand the clues, like holding up their fingers to indicate the number of words in a phrase they want the audience to guess or tugging on their ear to let the players know that the answer is something that "sounds like" what they are about to mime. The only props used for the game are some basic household items that might be lying around, such as items of clothing or furniture. From there, it's just a matter of being clever and creative and acting things out. ( Read more about Modern Charades vs Victorian Charades! )
Forfeits—
- One person (called "the judge") is chosen to leave the room. All the other players must place a small personal item into a box. This might be an article of jewellery, or an item from the pocket or handbag, or a small item of clothing such as a tie or shoelace. The "judge" is brought back in to the room. They pick up an item and describe it. The owner must identify themselves and pay a forfeit — do something amusing/embarrassing — to win back the item. The judge chooses which forfeit to award the player. If the player fails, or refuses the forfeit, then the judge keeps the item.
( Suggestions for forfeits: sing a song; dance; stand on your head; tell a story; bark like a dog, do jumping jacks, imitate the person on your left, hold your breath for as long as you can; hug the person sitting opposite you; tell everybody something embarrassing that happened to you; walk around the circle backwards; etc! Many and more ideas can also be found here! )
Yes and No/Twenty Questions—
- One person picks a person, place, or thing, and commits it to memory (Mount Rushmore, the ocean, an item in the room). They do not tell what this item is but they say, for example, "I'm thinking of something large." The guests are then allowed to ask yes or no questions. "Is it a building?" "No" "Is it an animal" "No." "Is it a monument?" "Yes." "Is it in Europe?" "No" and so on until one person guesses the item correctly. If the person guesses incorrectly the game still ends and the wrong person must chose a new "something." Players should never guess until they are completely sure they know the answer.
... Not to mention other (more modern!) classics such as Truth or Dare, Never Have I Ever, and Two Truths and A Lie (if you can convince your hosts, that is!), or card games, or the much beloved campfire tradition of scary storytelling!
( OOC | Feel free to include in your prompt games that are NOT mentioned here; these are just a few examples, but anything is on the table! If it's a board game, you're welcome to assume your character can find it lying around in a closet or on a shelf somewhere. )
✒︎ And whatever differences our lives have been⨾
However long it's been by now, know that there is an ample enough store of tea, biscuits, and sandwich fixings to help keep a person from going too stir-crazy... not to mention a reasonably well-equipped bookshelf, and whatever other elements of personal entertainment the hosts may own, or that a guest may have brought along. Music, radio, handheld TV? Let's not succumb to cabin fever yet here, people!
Or maybe it's finally time to take someone aside and speculate amongst yourselves (or God forbid, even gossip) about the bear-monster, or even the strings... likely you've noticed some very telling colors and/or connections by now between others that you'd like to discuss in private, if not yet necessarily — or maybe exactly that! — with one of the concerned parties yet themselves.
» TEA & FOOD; SHARING CONFIDENCES; OTHERWISE PASSING THE TIME.
However long it's been by now, know that there is an ample enough store of tea, biscuits, and sandwich fixings to help keep a person from going too stir-crazy... not to mention a reasonably well-equipped bookshelf, and whatever other elements of personal entertainment the hosts may own, or that a guest may have brought along. Music, radio, handheld TV? Let's not succumb to cabin fever yet here, people! Or maybe it's finally time to take someone aside and speculate amongst yourselves (or God forbid, even gossip) about the bear-monster, or even the strings... likely you've noticed some very telling colors and/or connections by now between others that you'd like to discuss in private, if not yet necessarily — or maybe exactly that! — with one of the concerned parties yet themselves.
✑ We together make a limb⨾
Some people may end up having to shelter overnight, or possibly even more than one night, so make sure you know what your sleeping arrangements will be if it comes down to that. Not a problem, if so; these things happen, and there's a comfortable sofa, plenty of blankets, and (maybe?) even a spare room for guests to avail themselves to.
But let's also circle back a moment, because maybe this will also demand confronting your string situation head on in some way; if you're sharing a room with someone you're connected to, for instance, that's a hard thing to miss, let alone ignore. Maybe it's time to talk about it, or talk about something else that you hope can eventually lead into talking about your threads in a more casual, natural way— if such a thing is even possible.
It could also be that you're struggling to sleep, and find yourself "alone together" with someone else who is experiencing the same problem... offering, again, the ideal moment to confront the connection privately, or else talk around it until you finally build up the courage to address it, talk about it by not talking about it, exactly, or simply avoid the subject at all costs. Ultimately, in the end, that part is up to you... but remember the storm, remember that privacy is hard to come by in such a claustrophobic situation; maybe it's not the worst idea to take advantage of it while you have it.
» WINDING DOWN; CONFRONTING THE UNSPOKEN... (OR NOT).
Some people may end up having to shelter overnight, or possibly even more than one night, so make sure you know what your sleeping arrangements will be if it comes down to that. Not a problem, if so; these things happen, and there's a comfortable sofa, plenty of blankets, and (maybe?) even a spare room for guests to avail themselves to. But let's also circle back a moment, because maybe this will also demand confronting your string situation head on in some way; if you're sharing a room with someone you're connected to, for instance, that's a hard thing to miss, let alone ignore. Maybe it's time to talk about it, or talk about something else that you hope can eventually lead into talking about your threads in a more casual, natural way— if such a thing is even possible.
It could also be that you're struggling to sleep, and find yourself "alone together" with someone else who is experiencing the same problem... offering, again, the ideal moment to confront the connection privately, or else talk around it until you finally build up the courage to address it, talk about it by not talking about it, exactly, or simply avoid the subject at all costs. Ultimately, in the end, that part is up to you... but remember the storm, remember that privacy is hard to come by in such a claustrophobic situation; maybe it's not the worst idea to take advantage of it while you have it.
no subject
[ Hand to chest to indicate himself, frowning now in confusion.
It's no wonder that stripe of gunmetal grey discolors their otherwise gilded thread; they'll probably never manage to actually connect, these two, let alone intuitively, although it's relationship growth in itself they can tolerate each other enough to get along by now. Perhaps even, at times, somewhat fondly.
At the moment, he regards her warily, trying to work out what these so-called "rules" are that she mentioned, when the answer — or at least, an answer — manages to occur to him, albeit an answer to a question he would have never expected Wynonna, of all people, to be asking him... of all people. ]
If you're referring to the proper etiquette of... of courting, then yes, I... imagine that should be appropriate.
[ Walking the lady home, especially given she has no husband or brother here to do it instead. ]
Though it's really less an act of true courtship as much as it is one of simple chivalry.
[ Unless they meant to do more once they reached her house, but Irving would truly rather not assume as much— anyway, a walk, a stroll, let alone escorting someone home after a storm, was not in itself necessarily scandalous without other factors to consider, such as was it before or after dark; were they truly alone, or did they walk the main, generally populated streets? So on and et cetra.
He only drops his gaze briefly while speaking, a flush of embarrassed consternation spreading up from his neck to his face to his hairline. Then his eyes, large and nigh-unblinkingly, raise up to meet hers again, his expression guarded and uncertain before he puts a hand up in flustered panic. "Not that it's stopped him in the past" seems like more than he needs to hear. ]
But I don't— I-I don't need to know any more details, thank you!
no subject
[ Her face scrunches as she watches him flush and fluster, but for once his sense of equilibrium, knocked askew and all surprised, matches her own. ]
We're not courting.
[ She barely even knows what that means, aside from a kneejerk reaction to avoid it as a label. This is all so new, even if it also isn't, really, at all. She doesn't totally know what to call the way they've been orbiting each other for over a year; they were wary of each other, and then cautiously trusting, and then friends, seemingly out of nowhere, and now...
And now he feels like a line that keeps her tied steadily to shore instead of blowing away at the first sign of a storm. Even now, as she reflexively pulls back from any possible label, any name for whatever this is that will make it real and not some fever dream brought on by the way they'd collapsed into each other in Lakeside, she feels that connection, now a glowing red string, tug her back. ]
Are we?
[ Her only familiarity with the word itself — courtship — is from rewatches of the BBC Pride & Prejudice miniseries and a few of Doc's stories, all of which are way more lascivious than she thinks Irving could ever even imagine. ]
What does that even mean?
no subject
Forgive me if I refrain from using any of your words for it, [ he responds at length, speaking each word carefully. ] but if the two of you haven't been courting one another all this time, then I suggest you—
[ Irving's jaw clenches, searching for the right way to finish that thought. Taking a moment to re-compose himself, while he's at it. ]
... I suggest you both begin writing down your feelings for the other in a letter, and then decide whether or not that's a letter you'd care to send. [ He primly adjusts his posture, sitting up straighter. ] Courting is when you seek out someone else's company, Miss Earp. Something I'm sure you're already well familiar with.
[ Okay, that came out a bit cattier than intended. Irving blushes at his own rudeness, covering his mouth as if even he's surprised by it. More softly, speaking in a rush, he adds: ]
I-I apologize, that was... inappropriate.
no subject
What the hell do you mean, 'all this time?'
[ It's only been a few days since he came and found her in Lakeside and brought her back here, and as far as she can tell that's where the count should start, even if she'd been wrestling with all of this for... okay, for way too long, probably, but still.
But that's not the really interesting thing, and neither is the advice he gives her — writing down her feelings, yikes —
The really interesting thing, the thing that makes her sit up from where she's been slouched on the sofa, some light of clarity flashing through the fog they've wound around themselves through this conversation, is what he snaps at her afterwards. It's bitchy as hell, just this side of calling her a slut, and she's both impressed and intrigued, even as the hit lands.
Look, it's not like he's wrong. She hasn't been hurting for company even here, even if Edward is... different.
He knows it, too; he flushes with embarrassed color, heightened by his loss of temper, and brings a hand up like he could keep the words from coming out. Wynonna shakes her head at him, the waves of her hair pulling at her shoulders with the motion. ]
Oh, uh-uh. Nope. We are not letting that slide.
[ She leans forward, peering at him with new interest, like he's some new kind of bug she's never seen before. John Irving, with a spine. Who knew? ]
Look, if you don't think I'm good enough for him, just say so. Chances are I'll agree with you.
no subject
[ Irving repeats it dryly, as if to draw an underline below the words: by 'all this time,' he meant all this time. ]
Since before I— [ Turned up here? Awoke? Came back to life? ] Before we were introduced. What else could I have meant?
[ He clears his throat again, in an uncomfortable way that likely evokes the image of collar-pulling in accompaniment— bashful now, humbled by his own indiscretion.
After setting his teacup aside, he laces his fingers together over his knee, tented there slightly pressed fingertip to fingertip. ]
And I-I only— all I meant to suggest is that Edward's history is a great deal... different from yours. To my recollection, he's never once mentioned having any lady friends, nor a fianceé, waiting for him at port, in either the present- or past-tense.
[ Which is not to say such women don't — didn't — exist, of course, but if they did, Irving certainly never heard Little speak of them— either that, or else he's somehow managed to tune it all out. ]
But it's certainly not up to me to remark upon your character on his behalf, [ he adds, quickly. ] Edward must choose his own companions.
[ And really, it isn't that Irving thinks ill of Wynonna... exactly, but that she's very, very different from any of the women they might have met back home.
Yet in spite of all that, Little is clearly drawn to her, and has been for quite some time. Irving has known — well, suspected — as much for ages, anyway, but now he acknowledges this to himself with a sense of calm, almost bittersweet resignation. ]
"Good enough" makes nearly no matter here, besides, seeing as none of us bring along with us any sort of means or assets.
no subject
That hadn't just been to try and soothe him. She'd touched him then, like that, tenderly and carefully, because she'd wanted to.
And it's been aching deep under her ribs, her lungs, her diaphragm, ever since, that sore and tender feeling. She feels it now, remembering, and swallows, before blinking back out of memory and into the present, where at least she can offer some kind of information. ]
There weren't any. He told me he was more focused on his career, he never had time for all that stuff. Or maybe never wanted to, I don't know.
[ I'm not certain I would have made a very adequate husband, anyway, he'd said; typical self-deprecating Little, making the world's tiniest joke at his own expense while they danced. Her lips twitch into a smile thinking about it, warm and amused and fond; how nervous he was, how her own stomach had kept clenching and flopping over in her gut. But he'd relaxed, and so had she, and it had been... nice, right up until it wasn't. ]
And yeah. My history's different. But it's not like you really knew that, right? You don't know that much about me.
[ Aside maybe from seeing her with March, maybe, or getting the wrong idea from the ring she wears on its chain around her neck. ]
So whether you're remarking on my character out loud or not, you've clearly got an opinion that's got nothing to do with whatever material crap I've got to my name. Which isn't much of anything even at home, by the way.
[ The real question is, why is he tying himself up in knots about it? Is it really just the concern of a friend and colleague for someone they know and respect? Why would that tinge of resignation come pooling gently into her chest if that's all that's going on? ]
Maybe it's not up to you to say anything, but you did say something. Why?
no subject
[ And while Irving could apologize again, he'd prefer to move past that moment now, if possible, as quickly as possible.
But of course, he'll apologize again if she needs him to. Shame has already overtaken whatever disconnected yearning has localized behind his ribs, not outright replacing what had come before, but muting it like a hand that's been firmly clapped over a mouth. It had been a slip of the tongue, in so much that he hadn't at all meant to comment on her so-called proclivities.
(Focused on his career rather than a marriage sounds about right, though; the same is also true for Irving, as well. That, and how he didn't want to marry to begin with.)
Ahem. He flushes again, slightly anew, but holds his head high, trying to recover some sense of dignity despite all the confusion and conflict that continues to simmer and roil inside him. ]
As far as your history is concerned— [ he repeats the word as if she can somehow intuit its true meaning that way, ] I'll allow that perhaps I was... mistaken in my presumption. Hasty, yes, assuredly. But Edward is my... my good friend, you understand. And so I shouldn't much care to see him at risk of potential heartache.
[ Because yes, he suspects there's likely something more between Wynonna and March other than simply making their basement bootleg wine, and then what about Jopson, too?
Oh, how the mind truly could reel were Irving to actually allow it to... but he thinks that he's (hopefully) made his point. Take it slow, he could say, and be patient with him, except that's not exactly advice (let alone the language or vocabulary such advice would be given in) one might find being dispensed by the typical Victorian guidebooks, never mind from actually typical Victorians.
Slow, fast, casual, complicated, unbalanced, transactional, mismatched, love without congress, or congress with love— it's not that these sorts of relationships (as well as many, many more) didn't exist back then, too, but the relationship standard approved of by both society and God isn't one with much room left for interpretation. ]
no subject
[ But it's not. Even she knows all the connotations that come with courting, which is why she'd had a reflexive moment of panic to begin with.
But. If she's being fair, she has to admit that, yeah, his assumption was just that, but that doesn't make him wrong. She's bounced from guy to guy for years, never letting any of them get too close, never letting any of it become anything like real. Maybe a small handful out of the bunch could ever have been considered boyfriends, and she'd handily sabotaged those before they ever managed to hit anything like serious.
But Little isn't March. He isn't Doc, as good for a frantic roll in the woods as he is with casual smiles and easy compliments.
(Except Doc had wanted something more, hadn't he? And she'd been the one to shut it down again. I think I'm better off traveling solo. The last thing she'd said to him before getting dragged to this place.)
She's conscious of her ability to hurt Edward Little, how easy it would be. They've hurt each other in the past, even without any of this — or, at least, without it being something anyone realized or acknowledged — and it would be even easier now. She knows how deeply he feels things. She's completely aware of his loyalty towards her. It scares her half to death to even think about it.
And now here's Irving, giving her some version of the same talk she'd given the Doctor and Tim: please don't hurt my friend, he's asking, and she knows it's a possibility, maybe even a probability, even as the very thought feels like she's stabbing herself in the gut. ]
I didn't ask about the rules because I care about them. Or... courting, whatever. I still don't even know that's actually what's happening, [ she adds, with a warning glance at him.
Little might be able to answer that question, but she can't. ]
I mean, from his end, anyway. I only know what I...
[ Nope. That's a bridge too far, and she fidgets, clears her throat, her glance falling to her lap before she lifts it to meet Irving's gaze, clear as a pool of still water. ]
But if I know what he'd expect, what's normal, maybe I can... you know, do something. To make him more comfortable. I don't...
[ Ugh. She's stubbornly dragging every word, reluctant and struggling, from somewhere deep down. ]
He's already anxious enough about literally everything. I don't want him to be anxious about me, too. About this, I mean. He's probably always going to be worried about the other stuff.... that's not the point.
[ Why. ]
Just. Okay?
no subject
[ Because apparently it doesn't simply go without saying that men and women being just "friends" is not normal? Which is, quite honestly, probably the primary — if not only — reason here that Irving of all people happened to suspect something was between them so much earlier than even they have.
(Well, though actually, what's Little's excuse?)
The emotional roller-coaster that follows makes him light-headed and vaguely queasy, although some of it he does manage to follow even as the rest of it feels much too much for him: guilt, fear, trepidation... something which seems adjacent to both longing and heartbreak while being exactly neither. The buzzing anxiety he can feel collecting around thoughts of Little like so many swarming bees, though, Irving can somehow understand— it isn't so far removed from how he feels sometimes, although never predictably. As for the compulsion to be alone...
He thinks of trying to make friends aboard a ship, and of keeping himself at a constant remove because of knowing how the other men will continue to call him anchorite and "Holy Ghost boy" behind his back no matter how kind, patient, or tolerant he tries to be, no matter how generous he is with loaning out his own things for others to use.
And as for romance, well, Irving has never felt any particular need or rush to settle down and marry; if ever he should want to, the option will be still there, but as yet, his mind has never changed much on the subject. For one thing, he already has a family, and the thought of trying to build up such an intimacy with anyone fills him with something very akin to dread, if not abject terror. Satisfying some base, physical urge just isn't worth such vulnerability and self-loathing— and if ever it actually was, well, sailors make do. One way or the other.
How easy it would be, and even easier now. It's a possibility, maybe even a probability, even as the very thought feels like—
Irving can feel his gut clench and turns over, as his heart vibrates wildly like a bird that's found itself trapped indoors. He breathes in and out slowly, then takes a measured sip of tea, but no amount of deep breathing can prepare him for Wynonna (sort of) asks him next.
Something about which he couldn't imagine feeling any more at a loss how to advise. ]
That's precisely why so many old friends and newly besotted sweethearts alike choose to exchange regular correspondence with one another— to properly and appropriately help make their attentions clear. I...
[ He hesitates, suddenly awash within a strange self-consciousness, before he adds more quietly, deliberately: ]
By now you must know him half as well as I do, Miss Earp. If not more.
no subject
Maybe she shouldn't be so surprised that Irving's as gunshy about opening himself up to another person as she is. And those frustrated feelings of loneliness, of being other, with that embarrassed and aggravated tinge that she knows all too well from her own memories of never being normal enough, being the butt of every joke — well, she can read those like newspaper print, and for a moment the string on her end pulses solid gold, without any of that darker gray binding it.
And that distress he feels, conflicted and contained, mingled with resignation — it's not the first time she's felt that from him, either. ]
I'm not really much of a letter writer.
[ To say the least. She hadn't sent even Waverly so much as a postcard in years, and the thought of trying to put down on paper, to make even more real and solid than even just speaking words into the air, everything she feels and wants drives an ice-pick of dread deeply into her stomach. Even though he's right. Over the course of the year, she's gotten to know Little better than almost anyone else she's ever known. She's told him things she never thought she'd tell anybody. And, of course, there's her current cheat sheet. ]
I definitely do right now.
[ She lifts her hand to indicated the glowing red string that winds its way across the room and disappears up the stairs before she remembers: ]
Right, you can't see it.
[ The weird thing was that she had wanted to get to know him. She'd wanted him to feel comfortable enough to talk to her about the things he doesn't talk about; she wanted to hear his stories and worries and hopes even before she figured out what that weird feeling was in her stomach when he lightened into a smile around her. ]
But you're right, even without this thing, I guess I know him pretty well.
no subject
It's this last one that he examines now, concerned of what the discoloration might indicate; something bad? He can't see how it could mean anything good, but... what, then? His relationship with Little is as good as its ever been, as far as he can tell. The two of them now actually consider themselves friends rather than merely colleagues.
No sense in worrying about it, he tells himself. Maybe the colors don't actually mean anything at all (although he can't quite convince himself this is true).
Irving breathes out, focusing instead on the frustration he feels at being asked for advice only to have it discarded. Does he seem like an expert on courtship, some officious, matronly meddler? As much as he wishes he knew so-called simple things like how to make another person comfortable, he doesn't even know how to be comfortable himself, let alone less anxious about, yes, basically anything. ]
If not a letter... [ He sighs, turning his gaze back towards her. ] Then I suppose you could always try to demonstrate as much in your actions, instead.
[ Notice he doesn't suggest to just "talk about it," because to Victorians, that kind of emotional vulnerability is acceptable in a letter, whereas in person it's... well, there's a reason Brits are known for their stiff upper lip. One doesn't talk about personal things, not when they can express themselves much better, more distantly, in writing.
It's an important distinction, at least for more avoidant types like Irving. Little has less trouble expressing himself in the wardroom than Irving did, but as far as his private life goes, he can be almost more shy. ]
People like writing letters because they can take time to think of how best to express themselves, [ Irving decides to add, patiently, realizing Wynonna might not be the sort to have grasped the implications of this distinction. ] And you can take your time to consider your response. Whereas it'd be very forward of a man to speak his intentions to a lady directly and expect her to answer them.
[ Impolite, in Irving's opinion, and not to mention arrogant, but some men (and women) do prefer the bolder approach, so he bites his tongue against describing it that way. Maybe, indeed, Little would — does? — prefer a woman who's less ... traditional, so to speak, but it's harder to imagine him imposing his attentions on a lady (even Wynonna) in a way she'd struggle to politely recuse herself from.
(Not that rejection is anything a man like Little should have to worry about, Irving imagines, but still. There's a way to how things are done, after all.) ]
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Which isn't to say he hasn't occasionally said things that seemed like a spotlit glance into whatever he really thinks, feels. She might even argue he's done it a lot, with her. But he does always seem to need to work up to it, like he has to screw up his courage to say things like a man would be fortunate to be so close to you. Similarly, he's never told her not to say things to him that are clearly well past the bounds of whatever he's used to, but he gets embarrassed, shy. So she can see how maybe he'd like to have the words written down, thought out and presented in a quieter, more private way. And a letter, especially a hand-written one, which it would have to be, always feels more intimate; a message explicitly created, thought over, and meant for only one person's eyes.
She's got no idea what she would even say. She's barely able to put any of this into words for herself, let alone enough to set pen to paper and make them real in a way that makes her breath come short and shallow for a minute. It's bad enough saying something aloud, giving it shape and weight but letting it evaporate into thin air. Writing it down feels like taking the string that runs delicately from her fingertip and tying it around her own wrists.
She's stuck. Even aside from it apparently being a thing Little might be familiar with, she thinks it probably would, overall, give him something grounding, something to help with his own anxieties. But it would be hellishly hard for her. She's spent years focusing only on self-preservation. This would feel like, instead of putting up walls for protection, she's just slicing herself open, baring every soft and vulnerable thing inside. She wouldn't be able to absorb a hit. She'd be drawing a target on her own chest.
She wrenches herself out of the circling thoughts, focusing instead on Irving and the way he looks as he studies his fingertips and the threads she assumes he has there, like he's caught in some similar loop. It's a good distraction, and she lunges for it. She catches his eye and glances meaningfully down at his fingertips, then looks back up at him. ]
Something wrong?
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What? No—
[ He blinks, needing a moment to untangle the knot of inexpressible feelings — both hers and his own — wrestling within him before his thoughts can properly come together.
Still, as if for emphasis, he shakes his head as well. ]
No, not a thing. [ His fingers curl inward to his palms, hands moving to his lap. ] Why should anything be wrong?
[ Besides, she's the one who looks vaguely tortured (and maybe sick to her stomach) at the moment, however Irving struggles to belief that all this anxiety and reluctance could be about just writing a simple letter, timing notwithstanding.
His lips purse into a pensive little pout, eyebrows furrowing in consideration. ]
I was only wondering if there's meant to be any significance to their... to the colouring on them all.
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But it's her turn to be surprised when he tells her what he'd been thinking, and Wynonna frowns at him, bemused. ]
I mean... yeah.
[ Hadn't that been the crux of her conversation with March, their own golden string wound around with scarlet? If there weren't any difference, that one question wouldn't have hit so hard.
What color is his string, Wynonna?
She swallows back the pooling sadness at the memory and focuses on Irving, shrugging one shoulder casually, like he can't feel the complex mix of emotions that keep getting stirred up inside her. ]
The gold's different from the red, and the black's different from either one of those. Didn't you notice?
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[ And, as if to make his point, Irving's gaze then shifts meaningfully to the thread connecting him to Wynonna, then back up for a quick and almost self-conscious moment of eye contact. ]
Mine only appear as black, white, and gold— but mostly the last. I wasn't even aware they could look... red.
[ Although now he's almost tempted to glance back at his hands again, because there actually had been some red amongst all that gold, hadn't there? Not exactly... red red, but red enough to have made him think of rust, of blood.
Irving's fingers begin fidgetinb with themselves again, one leg jittering idly at a low frequency. He doesn't look. He... ]
But there's hardly any sort of guidebook for deciphering them, now is there? [ ... Is there? ] Though I'm presuming the gold must be for family and friends.
[ Mostly because that's the only thing all his gold connections seem to have in common, or at least, all the ones he knows the other side of; Little, Kate, and Wynonna so far, and maybe even a few others by now, too, depending on who else might turn up at their cabin during the storm.
Not that he would have defined himself as either friends or family to Kate or Wynonna, but it seems to Irving like the closest fit that could also encompass Little as well. The golds are all quite different from each other, though, as are the strings'... integrity, so to speak. Variable after variable after variable.
He swallows, slow and pronounced, feeling both cold and overheated simultaneously. His skin suddenly seems too warm, as if mildly fever flushed, yet his palms, neck, and forehead are distinctly clammy. ]
... And the black seems likely self-explanatory.
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She can't wait until these fucking things go away. (God, she hopes they go away.) ]
Yeah, seems like it. Friends and family, enemies.
[ She can't help it. Her mind brushes against that poor ghostly golden thread, the one that sent her running out into the night to desperately search for an Aurora that wouldn't come. She feels the cold slice of broken glass as her head fills with the sound of her sister, shrieking as she was dragged away. Wynonna's gaze drops, abrupt, and she swallows as she wrests her focus away from that thread, focuses it on another one, shining calmly red.
Little had pulled her away. He'd managed to get her back to the cabin, even as she was screaming and fighting to get away, to get back, pleading to go home. He didn't let go of her, just wrapped her up in himself until she remembered that she had something, someone, here to hold onto. ]
I only have the one red one.
[ She glances up to meeting Irving's eyes and tips her head meaningfully toward the door and the hall and stairs past it that lead upwards. ]
And it's not like the gold, it's not... feelings. It's like...
[ She's got no good way to describe it, the way she and Edward are layered over each other, mixed up in each other. It's a constant sensation, like she never needs to finish her sentences, because he'll be able to pick them up, seamless and easy. ]
He's in my head and I'm in his. Like there's some language only we get.
It's weird as hell.
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(Well, they'll follow him eventually, but he would rather not dwell on the fact that technically, everyone he's ever known must be dead by now, even if time spent in the afterlife works nothing like time spent on Earth... surely.) ]
The red... [ He glances up in the direction she indicates, steadily connecting the dots. ] Is that how it works?
[ He isn't sure he likes the sound of that: he's in my head and I'm in his. More for himself than Little and Wynonna, though; the idea of anyone being in his head fills him with the kind of dread that feels like his heart is plummeting down in an endless free-fall towards, perhaps, his stomach, or to simply splatter upon the ground like an egg.
But this isn't about him, thankfully. Irving shakes his head to clear it of any unnecessary thoughts, forcing himself to focus. ]
Then wouldn't now actually be the best time for you two to... come to some kind of an accord with each other?
[ He's not sure exactly how, because he knows better than to think Little (or Wynonna, or probably anyone else for that matter) should want his most private, personal thoughts open in such a way to be read like a diary, but there must be a way for them to intuit how best to proceed. Surely?? ]
Though I'm not sure I really know what you're describing.
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[ He's not wrong, though, and honestly: the string has already made a difference. There's less chance of them talking past each other right now, of someone saying something and the other one taking it the wrong way. He hadn't had to explain why he came running out to Lakeside to find her; she knew why. More than anything, it feels like when they're wolves together and everything is so much easier, clearer. Intention comes through without the filter of tone and word choice, or even words at all. It's nice.
It's also, as Irving rightly seems to feel, horrifying. It's an understanding of her whole self that's more intimate than feeling her emotions, than hearing her thoughts. It takes this person she's known for just over a year and turns him into someone she feels like she's known for a lifetime. It unsettles her and comforts her at the same time. Fitting, really, considering Little's had pretty much the same effect on her for months now.
But none of that has managed to magically change her into someone who knows how to even start that conversation. What, is she supposed to invite him over for dinner, like they're back in a normal world and they can do normal things like get to know each other over a meal? How could she begin to write a letter that's supposed to clear things up when the person it's all least clear to is her? ]
At the very least, we should be able to kill at charades.
[ She reaches again now, finally, for her tea, more to have something to do with her hands than because she wants the now lukewarm drink. ]
So no red for you? Not even one going home?
[ This is... not that surprising, honestly. ]
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A part of him does envy Wynonna her... connection with Little, that intuition the two of them currently share that goes beyond words, beyond thoughts, beyond even emotion, and just... is. Yet the very idea of sharing such an intimacy with anyone, Little included, scares him deeply, because the privacy of Irving's own mind is the only sanctuary he has left. If people only knew the nature of any his thoughts — from those fussy and mundane to the uncharitably critical, to the most secret and shameful yearnings that live inside both his head and heart simultaneously — they would likely think him even more unpleasantly queer than most do already. Cowardly. Unnatural, perhaps. Any number of possible judgements and indictments he could not bear facing, let alone living with.
He can acknowledge to himself, and himself alone, those moments when he feels so certain that he must be bad, because he knows it'll help motivate him to be better— others, though, might they not simply agree, or take it as confirmation for what they've always believed of him? He doesn't deserve the comfort of such an effortless bond, nor could he ever bear the sheer naked exposure of it, but Wynonna and Little clearly do deserve to have found that tender understanding with each other— or if nothing else, they certainly seem to have earned it.
Irving wants to be happy for them. ]
None, [ he confirms, although it's not quite true; two of the gold threads are flecked with spots of red, but that surely can't be the same thing at all. ] I'm a bachelor, as I'm sure I must have mentioned before.
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But it's still there, like a bitter aftertaste coating her tongue, spreading through the other emotions she's honestly stopped even trying to block out. She's too damn tired, they're too close. At least sorting through the chaff of everything coming her way through the gunmetal and gold thread winding between them keeps her from touching the faded gold thread spinning out from another finger, prodding it like she would the sore spot of a fallen tooth. ]
You probably did, but I definitely wasn't paying attention.
[ But it makes sense, based on what Little told her before: career-focused officers without the time to jump through all the hoops she assumes Victorian society would have placed on them. She can barely get it together to go on more than one date with a guy, let alone follow whatever spoken or unspoken rules go along with the whole idea of courting.
Which is why she asked, to begin with. Better to have a heads up than to get blindsided by some expectation she couldn't have seen coming; at least if she knows the expectation exists, she'll know what's happening when she inevitably disappoints it.
Fuck, fuck... what the hell was she thinking? ]
Honestly, you've probably got the right idea.
[ She tips up her cup and finishes her tea, then leans forward to set the cup back down, sliding a glance over at him as she does. ]
I know you think I've had a lot of connections or whatever, but I don't. I haven't. Not anything that really means anything, anyway.
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(This sends a brief, though sharp, pang of sadness through him, as he once again considers the faces of the Netsilik group that had fed him; it was not at all for the better that he'd unwittingly invited death upon them. If only he'd never approached at all, they might have remained forever untouched by the Expedition's violent intrusion upon that foreign landscape—
But of course he'd had to go to them, or else spend a lifetime wondering instead if it was all his fault the Expedition could not be saved.)
Many who serve in the Royal Navy did have wives, families, some of them even going so far as to fulfill the old stereotypes of "having one in every port," so to speak, but it wasn't terribly strange for a man to remain unmarried, either, or to postpone doing so in his youth in favour of waiting until he came into more seniority. He remembers writing of such a case in a letter once to his dear friend, William Malcolm — 'Miss Briggs's marriage with Captain Martin takes place on the 9th; he has become Flag-Captain, and it is considered a good match, though he is old enough to be her father' — and vaguely recalls it again now. Young women had far fewer options, then; to remain unmarried meant a much harder life, and losing favour in the eyes of one's own communities and families.
Kate Marsh would just about be considered of marrying age right about now, whereas Wynonna would absurdly be considered too old a prospect even for officers approaching a more advanced age of 50 and older. To Irving, it's not a bad thing at all that a woman's fate and futures need no longer be determined by what man she's matched with, but perhaps what's always stymied him most about Wynonna is her frankly almost masculine aversion to pairing off. Men, after all, need not always marry young, but women...
Well. As a man, Irving is quite content to remain unmarried for the time being, but if he were a woman, he imagines he would have liked to bear children— not that there's any way he can truly know how he'd feel in that position. But does Wynonna, or had she ever?
Again, there's that vague sense of envy that he still doesn't understand. ]
It isn't relevant, [ he says, with a brisk shake of his head. ] What's right for one man is not always right for another, wherein more personal matters are concerned.
[ He could probably write up some sort of... simple manual for her to follow, whenever she's feeling particularly lost or in need of some guidance, but then, what more does he really know about it, either? He doesn't even know what having a gold-and-red string means, yet somehow there are two of them trailing from his fingers, one of which leads right back upstairs.
Carefully, quietly, he ventures: ]
I'm not sure what you're so afraid of. [ And looks at her. ] You must know by now that he's quite taken with you.
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Well, I know now.
[ Impossible not to, with this thread, even if it doesn't telegraph feelings to each other the same way the gold ones do. She doesn't feel his emotions, she just understands them, maybe even more deeply and clearly than she understands her own. She knows he cares about her, she knows there's that same heat and need and desire in him that's been rippling through her own blood; she also knows he's got no fucking idea what to do with any of it. He's shy and nervous as hell and as much as having the string grates at her, she has to admit that without it they'd probably be having a hell of a lot more trouble than they already are.
Maybe they'd still be keeping away from each other, neither one willing to act on what they're both feeling. She's got no idea. But what she does know is that it's not enough to want someone, to care about them. Everything else has to add up, line up, too, and that's where she's always fallen short in the equation.
Her glance slides away from John, moves to watch the log in the fireplace as it slowly collapses into coals, a few sparks drifting up with the hot air. ]
It's not him I'm worried about. It's me.
[ Why she's telling any of this to John Irving of all people, saying any of it out loud, is almost beyond her, but: she'd say it to Waverly. Who isn't here, but John is, and he's Edward's friend even if he isn't really hers, so maybe he's the best she's got right now. ]
If the people from home were here, they'd probably be putting money on how fast I can mess this up.
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(And Irving would hate to consider that possibility anyway, even if that's most likely how it would work.)
He looks at her wryly, features tense with discomfort and frustration. ]
Then perhaps you might consider doing as I advise, [ he says, with as much patience as he's capable of. ] And carry out your courtship on terms he's more familiar with. These matters may not always be comfortable, but neither are they to be rushed.
[ And trust him, it's hardly any more comfortable trying to be the voice of reason between them, given how vastly different Wynonna's demeanor is from Little's, but Victorian courting is not nearly so tawdry and impersonal as what she's likely more used to; something more formulaic rather than purely intuitive, which is a far less vulnerable experience —far less pressure — than these modern inclinations to dive headfirst into passion and intimacy. ]
You might set a pace together, I suppose.
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Yeah, no kidding. Why do you think I asked you about it in the first place?
[ That annoyance is quick and sharp; the frustration that follows right on its heels is almost sullen, like storm clouds drawing together overhead and rumbling a promise of violence. It's not the goddamn pace that worries her, it's her, her inability to do anything but break what's most fragile and precious. She's not stupid, she knows Little's not only cripplingly shy but also totally inexperienced; this isn't going to be anything like Doc, who met her like a flash of wildfire catching on dry brush.
She's crap at slow. But that doesn't mean she isn't going to try.
But none of that was what she was trying to confess to him, and the thought of trying to lay herself even more bare only sends those walls building right back up again. ]
It definitely wasn't because this is such a fun conversation to have.
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Tell me, then. Why did you ask, Miss Earp, [ he snaps back finally, angry color darkening his face in inflamed, dappled patches. ] if you were only going to insist on constantly objecting to everything that I've been telling you?
[ Irving's voice is low but sharp, barely louder than a hiss. He sets his teacup down, hands balling up into clenched, shaking fists which press down painfully against his knees. Frustration burns in him, too, but Irving's is more bristled than sullen, emotions tangled and chaotic; he can't even understand why she keeps fighting him so hard on this, when all along he's been telling her exactly how to approach every obstacle she's mentioned.
After all, isn't he supposed to be the authority on Little between the two of them? ]
If you truly believe you know so much better than I do, then clearly you must neither need nor want my opinions after all— never mind how I've been perfectly willing to thanklessly provide them for you.
[ He loads up and lifts the tea tray with a clatter, stalking off to the kitchen in a huff. Just give him a minute or two to angrily wash the dishes, lest he be driven beyond frustration into outright hysteria ... normally annoyance wouldn't even be affecting him quite this strongly, but something in the air tonight has felt especially charged and volatile between them. ]